


A Scarecrow for Mason Bradley

by grumblebee



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Gore, Horror, Other, Scarecrows, Suspense, all alone in a house in a cornfield, mention of sexual assault, short fiction, what could go wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 09:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee
Summary: When Evelyn's grandmother passes away she must sort out her seemingly harmless inheritance. Unfortunately, there's a lot more in the old farm house than old clothes, and more in the cornfield than scarecrows.





	A Scarecrow for Mason Bradley

When I turned 33 I inherited a corn field. It was my grandma's, left to me in her will for no other reason than I was the only grandkid to visit her. I didn't grow up close to her. Didn't even know her very well. But I came around a few summers as a kid, and once or twice as an adult, and I guess that was more than my cousins ever did. 

The cornfield was about 6 acres of land, with a rickety old farm house at the edge of the property. My grandma was raised there, as was my mother, but I was luckily spared the quiet farm life. From my summers there as a kid I couldn't imagine how they spent their time. The porch was always covered in bugs, the air thick and hot awaiting a rain that would never come. The general store was five miles down the road and no one would drive me there unless they needed something. It was pure torture for a kid raised on cartoons and arcade games. But at the age of 33, single and with no kids, I guess my grandma felt that the cornfield was the ideal thing to bequeath to her eldest granddaughter.

It felt wrong. I didn't have any farm experience other than watching my grandpa haul crates into his pick up. By all standards my  _ mom _ would have had more know how on the fields, and who to sell to, but she wanted nothing to do with the place. 

“Bad mojo.” She said. “Nothing good goes on in the cornfields. Just business and scarecrows.” 

Business and scarecrows. That's all she had to say about that. The deed was in my hands, and mine alone, and I figured before the crops withered away to nothing I might as well sell the damn thing off. 

The house was...less than ideal. In my grandmother’s old age she had neglected the property, letting men work the fields but not touch a shingle on her precious home. The result was a gnarled, wind beaten old house that looked ready to buckle. The porch I once sipped lemonade on as a kid was now warped and wavy, the stairs sinking in the center pathetically. I tripped over two of them as I lugged my heavy overnight bag to the front door. The lock was rusted badly, so much so I feared jimmying the key would break the whole thing apart. The surrounding door was just as flimsy. Old wood, caked in layer upon layer of flaking, peeling whitewash. I kicked a hefty patch of it off just unsticking the door. The place was shaping up to be one piece of shit. Begrudgingly, I reminded myself that this would have a payoff...if only a meager one.

    “Home sweet home, Grandma.” I called out of habit. The house responded with silence, and I felt sadness drop into my stomach like a stone. Everything was just as she liked it. Doilies on the end tables, a worn out pinstriped couch parked in front of the TV enshrined in a ludicrously large entertainment set. I remember my dad building it for her the last summer I visited. All the family VHS tapes were just where I put them. Neat rows of little black boxes with titles like “Evie 6 months” and “Evie Fourth of July”, even the rare “Evie college graduation” taken outside the timeless quiet of her small farmhouse. They all stood side by side facing the couch, where my Grandma would park herself each evening to huff at the news. The couch even sagged in her usual spot. For a long moment I wished I had visited more. For a longer one I wished my cousins had too. 

     Settling in didn't take long. One measly bag could be thrown anywhere. Anywhere happened to be on my grandma’s old bed, still made up as if she were to roll in that night. I sat on the edge of the bed, taking stock of the endless tasks I'd need to complete in my short stay. Find keepsakes, donate old clothes, assess the property. I found that listing them helped keep the ache out of my chest, but the grief was too fresh to start tackling them all at once. Throwing away my grandma’s things would bring me to tears, and so in an effort to ease into my chores I changed into my boots and headed out to the cornfields. The fresh air would do me good. 

It only took about fifteen minutes for me to remember how much I  _ hated _ those cornfields. When you’re 9 ,and a third of the height of a corn stalk, it's all too easy to get swallowed up in that sea of green. You chase one field mouse off the dirt road and into the thick of it, and the next thing you know you're far from home, the sky itself retreating upward from long groping tassels. I remember crying out in those fields until my grandpa rode by on his pick up. How he was able to spot me was a miracle. As I looked over the fields now I still felt as though I stood at the edge of an unforgiving sea, rolling and deep; filled with secrets. Turning down the main path that lead through the fields I inadvertently stumbled across one of those secrets. 

       Hoisted on a wooden frame, just a few yards into the field, was a scarecrow. Not just any scarecrow; the scarecrow made for Mason Bradley. Now, let me be frank, this thing was an ugly son of a bitch. It was roughly the size of a man, tall and lanky. From afar it looked like a spindly figure held aloft by the waving corn-- odd but ordinary. Up close...well, it was something else. It was a hand stitched monstrosity, made from patches so severely faded I had to squint real hard to figure out what they were. Badly worn florals and threadbare corduroy. They merged in a mottled mess, sutured shut with thick wide stitches that ran across the body like railroad tracks. From between the fabric peeked its grassy innards, spilling out from where the crows had picked away at it. All of it was topped off by a wide, red yarn frown, and shiny button eyes, shaded from the sun under a woven straw hat. The damn thing gave me jitters. 

I don't know why we kept it, other than the fact that my grandma made it. As a kid I thought my grandpa was too polite to tell grandma that her six- foot-tall straw monster of Frankenstein was lousy at scaring the birds. The day he plucked me from the field he stopped his pickup truck at the scarecrow to shoo away a murder of crows playing with its gangly limbs. They pecked at it curiously, tearing holes into its soft stuffed arms. My grandpa would have none of that. 

“Don't you go chewin’ on that fella!” He hollered, waving his arms wildly. The crows cawed and carried on, only flying away once my grandpa flailed into the fields, shouting all the way. I found it odd, and watched as he tenderly fixed the scarecrow’s shirt. He pulled out a safety pin and fasted a particularly large hole back together, mumbling quietly under his breath. When he returned to the pickup he acted as though this were all routine.

“Remember to tell your grandma that thing needs fixin’. She's good with a needle.” The pickup rumbled to a start and headed back towards the house. The scarecrow rolled into the distance behind us. 

“Grandpa, why not get a new one? The birds aren't scared of it.” I said, catching sight of the crows returning to their perch in the rear view mirror. Grandpa just sighed.

“It ain't for  _ birds _ , Evie. Your grandma made that scarecrow for Mason Bradley.” I had never heard that name before. It wasn't anybody my grandma invited over for cook outs, or met with down at the church. Hell, I knew a good portion of the people in my grandma’s life and none of them had that name. Before I could even ask my grandpa pulled some sweets from his pocket and bribed the question away. “You don't need to be tellin’ your grandma I said that neither.” His tone was firm in a way that told me this was a topic for grown ups, and I wasn't quite grown yet. 

Being a grown up didn't shed any light on the topic. Even as I started drinking, and my grandma poured a hefty cup of cheap wine beside me, the name Mason Bradley never came up. Other things did, of course. Family gossip. Who eloped, who divorced badly, who scorned who at what funeral. Skeletons of every kind in every closet, but none belonging to a certain Mason Bradley. The name had almost been lost to me until I was face to face with the only thing he had; that scarecrow.

“Go on now, shoo. Go peck out some other fella’s eyes.” I flailed my arms in an effort to rid the scarecrow of a brazen little crow trying to make off with one of its eyes. The crow cawed at me loudly, annoyed that I swooped in to claim his prize. The glassy black button hung by a loose thread, and I pocketed it before the crow found the courage to reclaim it. With one eye the scarecrow looked incomplete; a little goofy and off. I tapped the button hiding in my jean pocket.

     “Don't worry, I won't leave you out here lopsided. I'll come fix you up like grandma did.” The scarecrow swayed silently in the breeze. I took that as an ok. Without much else to do, I headed back to the farmhouse to beat the sun, all the while feeling like the one remaining eye of the scarecrow was fixed on my back. 

     That night I raided the cupboards and sadly made some boxed mac n cheese. I sat in front of the TV in my grandma's faithful spot, eating mindlessly off the old wobbly TV tray she kept there. The channels never did come in right after they switched from analog to digital, and so I spent the evening watching the old family videos taken by my grandpa. A flickering screen with me atop my dad’s shoulders, waving with the corn stalks. My chubby arms swayed back and forth, my dad moving from side to side, and in the distance another figure moving in perfect rhythm; Mason Bradley’s scarecrow. 

I must have dozed off at some point because I woke up abruptly to the sound of the automatic rewind of the VCR. Damn near scared the crap out of me, but for the better. The farmhouse was prone to bugs and other critters crawling about if you didn't clean properly, and I had a whole sink full of cheese coated dishes just sitting there. Sleepily, I cleared the TV tray, ran the sink, and washed up. Once done the VHS was popped back into its rightful place, and the throw blanket folded over the back of the couch. It's the little things that made grandma's house run smoothly. I guess now it was my house too.

I followed her footsteps, flicking off the lights and heading upstairs to the bedroom, all the while humming to myself to ward off the darkness. The darkness was the one thing I could never get over. Not out here. 

I was ready for bed in record time, not wanting to lose the drowsy haze I had stumbled through. The last thing I did was ensure a long night’s sleep, and went to draw the curtains close. My hands tugged weakly at the curtains, eyes drifting over that waving sea of corn limned by silvery moonlight. In the dark it almost looked like water. It shimmered and rippled, graced only by the lone moonlight swimmer that was Mason Bradley’s scarecrow. I never noticed how it directly faced my grandma's room. It waved in the breeze, straw hands moving with the crests of corn tassels, almost as if it were wading through that deep dark abyss. I closed the curtains a little more quickly after that, and rightly put myself to bed. 

I found myself on the steps of the local church a few days later, my car stuffed with trash bags filled with old clothes. I dabbed at my eyes with the back of my hand, hoping to minimize the damage from my most recent round of tears. A lady cracked opened the wooden door, poking her head out into the bright light of afternoon. 

“You must be Evelyn.” She said, a little chipper for my liking. “I'm Patricia, I cantor here. We spoke earlier on the phone?” I nodded, weakly gesturing to the car filled with my grandma's things.

“It's a lot.”  Patricia glanced over my shoulder into the car.

“Indeed it is. Lorna always wore the same thing to church, who knew her closet was so big. Well, no matter, let's get this inside.” She made short work of the pile, grabbing two trash bags in each hand, and tucking one under her right arm. I grabbed the remaining three, my fingers strangled by stretching plastic.

We headed inside, greeted by the musty smell of old bibles and waxed pews. No service was in session but there were people praying to the soft hymn being played on the organ. I stifled a cough and followed Patricia to the little staircase that led to the rec room. The music followed. Once downstairs Patricia pulled out a large crate from under a fold out table. 

“You can empty the bags here. I'll sort through them later.” I did as I was told, tipping the contents of my grandma's life into the dusty old crate. Patricia’s mouth pinched into a frown. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“I'm sorry too.” 

Feeling sorry for me, Patricia left my side, only to return with a tin of cookies. She opened the lid and offered me some. I took three and mumbled a thanks. It only took a few minutes to dump out the bags, but I lingered around the church anyway. Going back home in an empty car didn't sit right with me. Patricia was understanding. She even offered to show me around the church. 

“Sure we’re not the only one in town, but we're a fine one.” She beamed, gesturing to the stained glass windows that lined the walls.She spoke in hushed tones as to not disturb those praying, but earned a few curious glances. “If you're sticking around we’d love to see you here on Sundays.” I wrung my hands anxiously. 

“Actually...I'm not staying. I'm selling the farm. I’m really only here until the place is in order.” Patricia’s smile dropped a little, though I didn't feel to badly about not being a part of her congregation. I was more anxious about a man in the pews who started to eavesdrop on our conversation. He head cocked to the side, ear poised to hone in on Patricia more than the soft organ music. I never liked busybodies. They have too much time on their hands. This one in particular. 

“If you don't mind, I have some things to do today. I really must be heading off.” I said. I wasn't keen on detailing any more of my day near this guy-- or Patricia for that matter. Not when I was out in those cornfields all by myself. Patricia showed me out the door, and I clambered into my car. As I pulled away from the church the door opened once more and the man in the pew poked his head out to sneak a peek. I caught a flash of him in my mirror just before I rounded the corner. I admit I stepped a little heavier on the gas. 

I made quick work of my errands, which mostly consisted of visiting the general store to make copies of documents and ask for around for a list of local contractors and realtors. I arrived home a little before 4 p.m., and settled in for what I hoped was going to be a productive evening at the kitchen table. That evening would not come. 

About an hour into my work there were three loud knocks at the front door. I froze. Quickly, I tried to think of I had missed something. An employee who I hadn't called about my grandma’s death. Someone who was expecting a shipment or payment that would never come. Another series of knocks prompted me to my feet. It was glaringly obvious I was home. My car sat out front, and my muddied work boots leaned up against the flaking exterior of the house. I chanced a peek through the curtains, but only glimpsed the sleeve of a green jacket. For the life of me I don't know why I answered the door. Why I didn't ask who it was or refuse to answer. I wish I had. 

The door opened with a creak, revealing a man standing anxiously behind it. He was old, around the age my grandparents were—but where age shrunk their stature his was impossibly large. It didn't take much time to recognize him as the man who had been eavesdropping on me in the church. No longer on his knees in front of a pew he filled my entire doorway.In his large wrinkled hands was a fruit basket. Maybe that's why I opened the door the rest of the way.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you like this, comin’ over unannounced n’ all, but I overheard you talkin’ at the church and figured I should pay my respects.” His voice was low and gravelly, and almost too slow not to sound rehearsed. I gripped the doorknob tighter. 

“That's very kind, uh--” I didn't know his name. The way he looked at me it was as if he assumed I  _ should _ know. 

“I'm Mason Bradley.” 

My blood ran cold, eyes darting out past his shoulder and into the field to check on the scarecrow. It was there, still facing the house. I don't know what else I expected to see, but the man my grandpa had insisted it was put up for was now on my doorstep. I returned my eyes to Mason, who was getting impatient. I cleared my throat.

“I'm terribly sorry, were you a friend of my grandma?” 

Something twinkled in his eyes, kind of like when you remember something particularly funny. His lips turned up into a tight smile. Something about that didn't sit right. 

“An old one. I used to work the fields for your great grandpa when Lorna was a young woman.” He raised the fruit basket up to my line of sight. “May I come in?” 

I should have turned him away right then and there knowing the awful shadow his name casted over my family. Trusted that feeling in your gut that tells you a person is shit to the core. I should have, but I didn't. Instead, I stepped aside and let that slimy son-of-a-gun into my  _ grandma’s _ house. As he side shuffled by me I spared another glance at the scarecrow in the field, with its one eye staring back at the house blankly, and cursed it. Damn thing never did one lick of good. 

Mason Bradley made himself at home, sitting at the kitchen table with a loud grunt. He placed the fruit basket down roughly and with little consideration for the piles of papers carefully laid out. I clenched my jaw. 

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Bradley?” I had lost my mind but not my manners. Mason patted his stomach.

“Ya got any lemonade?”

I opened the fridge and shook a store bought container, and Mason hummed in agreement. I poured him a glass and set it down. I had no intention of joining him, and by how slowly he sipped it he had no intention of keeping this brief. 

“It's been a long time since I've been in this house. At least 50 years. Seems like the kind of time that should change a whole place over but…” he took a long leisurely look around “...Lorna was never much for change.” I leaned hard against the countertop, folding my arms defensively over my chest. 

“50 years seems like an awful long time to be out of touch.” Mason seemed to catch my meaning, and laughed it off.

“Ah well me and your grandma were always at odds. When Eugene died I thought about comin’ over n’ catchin’ up but life got in the way, I guess. Seems like I should have come for her sooner.” 

I crossed my arms tighter, trying desperately to hide the rage turning my knuckles white. I did not like this man. I didn't like his tone, his walk, the way he sat in my grandma's chair like he had been a part of the family this whole time. Like he was more than just a name we propped up in the cornfields. The worst part is the more he talked the more I had the creeping feeling he deserved to be out there among the crows. 

“You look an awful lot like Lorna, you know that Evie?” 

Now that made me stop cold. This slimy bastard had been overhearing me in church but I don't go by Evie anymore. I go by Evelyn. Evie was the name my grandparents called me. Despite that damned scarecrow it seemed Mason Bradley didn't have any problems sticking his nose into my family's business all these years. The idea that he was skulking around the cornfields when I was out there playing was enough to make my skin crawl. I shrugged my shoulders in an attempt to look calm and collected.

“Everybody tells me I look more like Grandpa Eugene. Same nose.” 

“Same nose. Sure.”

There was a long tense silence where Mason did nothing but stare blankly. The conversation had teetered off, and I suppose this is where a normal guest would take their leave. But not Mason. No, he didn't plan on leaving just yet.

“Have a piece of fruit, why don't ya? They're from my farm down the road.” The fruit basket was all apples. I picked one up, rubbing my thumb over the skin. It felt waxy. Still not wanting to be rude, I turned to the sink and ran the faucet. Mason piped up quickly.

“They're already washed. I wouldn't go givin’ apples without scrubbin’ them up first.” 

This was a dirty lie. I scratched at the surface of the apple and a tiny peel of white waxy  _ something _ came up under my nail. I turned the hot water knob on the sink further.

“Force of habit, Mr. Bradley. Grandma always washed fruit twice. Especially with those new pesticides everyone's using--”

“I  _ said _ it's  _ washed, woman.” _

His voice was sharp. The kind of biting tone you’d hear before plates were smashed or doors slammed. I didn't turn around to face Mason. If I did it would be clear how scared I was. And from the creak of his chair it sounded as though he were ready to leap out and jam the apple down my throat if I ran it under the tap . Instead I set the apple down on the counter top and reached for a drawer on my right. 

“My apologies. I'll just cut it up.” 

Now my grandma may have been kind, but she was not stupid. An old woman like her out here in the middle of nowhere-- in charge of fields and taking money-- that was dangerous. I don't remember her ever answering the door after dark without a pistol in her hand, even if she knew it was my mom or dad coming back from a late night movie. And every time she had done that, without fail, the gun was slipped back into a junk drawer in the kitchen. Hell, it wasn't safe back then to have kids running around with a loaded gun right there in the kitchen next to the twist ties, but right now? Right now it made a whole lot of sense. I opened the drawer and felt around inside, relieved to feel the grip of the gun under some sandwich bags. 

“Are you gonna hurry up and eat or not?”

I whirled around, pistol in hand. It caught Mason off guard and he pushed his chair back to avoid being smacked by the barrel. “Get out.” I spat it out with all the anger I could. Mason Bradley scrambled to his feet, his wrinkled old hands tugging at his jacket as he stormed towards the door. I followed, gun still in my outstretched hand, making sure he went straight for the door. I made sure to grab his basket of shitty apples as I passed the table, too. “Don't you come back here, Bradley.” I hissed. 

“You're a crazy little bitch, you know that? Just like your whore grandma.” He said angrily. I just continued to point the gun at his back as he retreated down the dirt path. My blood was boiling, my teeth clenched so hard I thought they would shatter. 

“And keep your  _ fucking apples.” _

I tossed those into the dirt far from my doorstep. It was only after watching Mason retreat for a good five minutes that I realized he hadn't parked anywhere. He walked through the cornfields, cutting through the property he used to work for my family until I could no longer see him anymore. The corn stalks dipped and swayed where he slipped out of sight, rustling past the tall mottled scarecrow on his perch. It faced the other direction now...away from my property. I gripped the gun tighter and bolted my doors shut. 

I set out on a mission that night. Somewhere in this house, amid the junk and clutter, there had to be answers. Something my grandma and grandpa hid for over 50 years. With dinner nothing more than a sandwich on my plate, I sat on the floor of my grandma’s room ready to sift through the piles of books and keepsakes littering the floor of the closet. I tried not to get too sidetracked by sentimentals. The photo albums, baby shoes, and home movie reels would have to wait. It was journals I was after. The older the better. I only needed to glimpse the date at the top of each one to know how far back I was going—although the yellowing pages clued me in.

It seemed I was at a loss. Every journal was kept in one large box. The oldest one at the bottom started with grandma’s wedding. I sighed, accepting defeat. Mason Bradley was just a wretched old man who scorned my family, and that was that.

I piled the journals back into their box, shuffling some bags of baby clothes around to make room for it again, when something fell back into the closet. It sounded dull and heavy, the way a book would fall as it slipped from your arms. It could have been crammed into one of the bags hastily, and never rejoined its fellow books in the box. I almost missed it. Curiously, I dove in after it. 

The book was in fact a journal. An ugly one. The cover was scratched and the pages were warped, almost as though it were caught in a house flood. It smelled of mildew...and lingering smoke. Examining the book I could see that certain pages had been burned. This book was too wrecked to  _ not _ be important. Why keep it? I flipped open the journal, taking note that the date was more than 50 years prior. It was hard to read due to the water damage, but it was what I was looking for. What I found was...disturbing. After pages and pages of home life and farm duties, Grandma mentions the new troubling farm hand on her property. The following are some excerpts that were still legible:

_ Dear diary, _

_ That new boy Mason Bradley is a menace. I don’t know why Pa hired him. All he has to do is help put up fences, but I catch him smoking and goofing off every chance he gets. Today I tried to tell him off for taunting the cows, and he flicked his cigarette at me. It landed in the hay and almost started a fire. I stomped it out, getting cow pie and tobacco all over my new shoes. Mason laughed at that. I hate his sour guts. _

 

_ Dear Diary, _

_I don’t think Mason Bradley ever goes home. He’s weird like that. At sundown the farmhands leave, and come back before dawn. But I see Mason from my window sometimes. He smokes out in the fields, and I find bottles out there in the morning. I tried to tell Pa he’s a drunk, but Pa says he can’t fire a man for drinking on his own time. But they’re our_ _fields. This next crop is going to sprout up smelling of whiskey if he’s not careful._

 

_ Dear Diary, _

_ Today I got in an awful fight with Ma. Pa is in bed from falling off his ladder in the barn. His head is scrambled from the fall, and the doctor says his brain might be damaged. I told my mom the truth. I told her I saw Mason Bradley holding Pa’s ladder before the fall. His eyes were glassy like the men who drink moonshine down the road. He wobbled a little like them too. I left the barn for only five minutes when Pa tumbled off and hit the floor. It wasn’t Mason who carried him inside. I have a feeling Mason was too drunk to hold any weight but his own. Ma says I’m making mountains out of molehills. That Mason isn’t a drunk and Pa just had an accident. But I know better. I  know _ _._

 

It was at this time I reached the first of the charred pages, a sickly feeling of dread mounting in my gut. It was as if I could see the storm brewing on the horizon, and couldn’t help my grandma out of the boat. The next excerpt is heavily damaged, by both fire and water, but it goes as follows: 

_ Dear Diary, _

_ Pa died today. His brain was too damaged from the fall. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t chew, and this afternoon he couldn’t breathe. That’s what took him. He turned all purple, clutching at the sheets as Ma tried to prop him up. He died leaning against the headboard a few seconds later.  _

_     Ma took him down to the morgue with the doctor soon after. I wasn’t allowed to go. She called up Eugene and asked him to stop by and take care of me while she dealt with Pa’s body. I cried that I wanted to go, and Eugene could drive me, but she demanded I stay put at the farm. A world of good that did.  _

_     I saw  Mason Bradley as the car pulled out of the driveway. He was leaning casually against the barn, smoking like his daftness hadn’t killed my daddy not two hours ago. I  hate  Mason Bradley.  I hate him.  I saw him take out his little bottle of booze from his corduroys and walk into the barn like he just got a free night’s pay. He didn’t even show up to work in his denims today. It was like he was waiting for Pa to die. I was  furious. I stormed right into the barn to give him a piece of my mind.  _

_I went in there alright, but Mason was waiting for me—-_

The pages here were so charred that they almost fell apart between my fingers. Whatever ink remained was heavily bled from water damage. The surviving words were no comfort. I didn’t need to guess what happened with Mason Bradley. I was, however, able to make out a flurry of words in my Grandma's tight handwriting at the end:

_ Eugene was able to fight him off. The shitstain ran from the barn without his corduroys. I cried knowing that Ma and the town won’t fight hard for me, and Eugene promised to keep my secret. But I don’t want it to be a secret. I want Mason Bradley to never come back. I want him to be scared to stick his nose into my business again. I took his filthy corduroys, and the pretty floral dress he ruined. I made a scarecrow with them. It’s ugly, and perfect. Eugene helped prop it up on the edge of the field. I  hate _ _Mason Bradley. I hate his guts. And if he ever steps foot in this house, neither God nor the crows will be able to save him._

I placed the book into the box and exhaled. The house suddenly seemed sadder, weighed down by the death of great-grandpa and Grandma alike. My grandma had once told me how much she missed her dad. That her house was just as he left it  in the hopes that he’d come by to visit in the afterlife. “I want him to feel right at home, and know where everything is.” That’s how she put it. I made sure to replace everything where I found it that night. 

I cried for grandma, calling it an early night to curl up in her bed and wish she were still around to stroke my hair. I wished I could tell her I would fight for her. I wished I could keep everything in the house as it was forever. 

I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke with a start late that night. The curtains were still open, spilling moonlight into the room. My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled to figure out what had jarred me from sleep. And that’s when I heard a thump at the front door. My heart leapt into my throat. Someone was trying to get in. 

My mind went to the obvious: Mason Bradley. I had scorned him that afternoon and he had come back to seek vengeance. Unlucky for me I had left the gun downstairs in the kitchen. Not only was he breaking in, he knew where my only weapon was. 

Frantically, I rushed to the window. If I could jimmy it open, maybe the jump down wouldn’t be bad. I could race to the car and get out of here. The thought of breaking my legs didn’t even occur to me. All I wanted was to escape. 

I pressed my hands against the cool glass windowpanes, judging the distance down. Too high, even for an adrenaline pumped escape. I looked out over the cornfields, hoping to catch sight of the nearest neighbor I could bolt to if I managed to get out. To my dismay it was just a blue sea of corn, for miles and miles. Blue and silver stalks swaying like ocean waves, rising and falling. Crashing over the...the... _ scarecrow.  _

_ The scarecrow wasn’t there.  _

My blood ran cold. Of  _ course _ it had to be there. It was a scarecrow. Perhaps it fell from its perch, or was just blotted out in the darkness. But the moon peeked through the clouds and illuminated the bare wooden support stuck out in the field. Mason Bradley’s scarecrow was not on it. 

Just then there was a crack, and the sound of wood splintering downstairs. My front door had been broken. Too paralyzed to jump from the window, but not brave enough to face the intruder, I did the most stupidly childish thing I had ever done. I got into bed and hid beneath the covers.  

I listened hard, my ears straining past the thudding of my own heart. Whoever was here walked slowly. Their footsteps were heavy, dragging across the wood floors. It sounded  _ off _ . Too slow and not very rhythmic. First two short steps. Then a long scraping one. It continued like this all throughout the downstairs. Then I heard the telltale creak of the bottom step. They were coming  _ upstairs. _

I squeezed my eyes shut, curling so tightly I thought I would crush my own lungs with my knees. The footsteps were so much heavier now. And they rattled with every step. It sounded like the crunch of hay. Whoever it was was at my room now. I held my breath and feigned sleep as the door creaked open. 

I admit I was too afraid to look. The intruder came in, their footsteps the same stomp and drag I heard downstairs. It smelled of hay. Like someone had come in from the barn after fixing up the place. The rustle of it was undeniable. I prayed that it wasn’t Mason. That he wasn’t hiding in that barn like he did all those years ago. 

Then the intruder approached me. Though I stayed still I knew I must have been trembling. I was a lump quivering beneath an old quilt, my hair still sticking out into the cool night air as I sucked in hot stifling breaths beneath the covers. That thudding, dragging sound came closer and  _ closer,  _ until whoever it was must have been right beside my bed. Something fell into my hair. A hand. It petted me awkwardly, like it was mimicking affection. Like the way a parent would soothe a sick child in bed.

I choked out a strangled sob, convinced this was the end for me. Whatever was petting me would soon rip back the covers and kill me. And no one would know the wiser. My hair pulled painfully as it snagged what felt like twigs. The hand did this for a minute or so before something equally as unsettling happened.

“ **_Sleep.”_ **

That’s all it said. Sleep. One horribly coughed up word that sounded like it was hissed and garbled. Like a woman whispering, and a man who couldn’t catch his breath. It withdrew its hand and ventured to the opposite end of the room. Equal parts curious and oxygen deprived, I opened the blanket to take a peek. There, on the opposite end of the room, was Mason Bradley’s scarecrow. 

It was hunched over a pile of my clothes, ransacking the place to find something. I watched silently as it flung sweaters and T-shirts aside in its quest for...well I didn’t know quite yet. It only dawned on me when I saw the scarecrow pick up my jeans. It clumsily stuck its long fabric fingers into the pocket to fish something out. Its button eye. I had neglected to patch it back on. That didn’t seem to bother the scarecrow, however. It found a pin on the vanity table, piercing the button into place on the worn fabric. The job was clumsy, the scarecrow kind of cockeyed as it looked at itself in the mirror. But it was satisfied.

I watched as the scarecrow turned and left the room, both scraping feet leaving trails of hay and corn silks on the floor. It fell at the bottom of the stairs, righted itself in a flurry of rustling, and headed out the open door.

I stared at the doorway to my bedroom. I stared at it until the wall turned a rosy pink with the sun. None of this seemed real to me. The whole thing felt like a waking nightmare. But as the sun rose higher I felt prompted to rush downstairs and check if it was all real.

The hay was real. It stuck to my feet as I ran down the stairs. I even hopped over a pile of stuffing in the spot where the scarecrow tumbled down. My front door was open, splintered at the rusty lock. But all of that felt much more believable than what I found outside.

The apples that Mason had brought to me the day before still lay in my driveway, along with the corpses of a dozen or so crows that had fed on them. Overhead it caused quite a storm, a murder of crows circling the corn fields excitedly. None bothered to swoop down and peck at the apples lying beside their fallen fellow corvids. They instead cawed loudly, swooping and diving to the end of the corn field. I followed them. Followed the sound to the edge of the field where I was sure to find the scarecrow. Had it come alive to taunt the birds who pecked at it for years? Or was its absence so alarming that the crows were in hysterics trying to find it? I found out soon enough.

My mom said that nothing good goes on in the cornfields. Nothing but business and scarecrows. I found both of them that morning. The scarecrow had gone, but didn’t leave the fields unattended. Its post was occupied by a man I already knew. 

He was cut open, his innards spilled to the floor so his gut could be stuffed with hay. His arms were outstretched, supporting six crows on each limb. They pecked at him ravenously, tearing at his cheeks, eyes, and throat. That too had been slashed and stitched like a poor quilt over the wooden stake ran through him. The crows went wild for their feast, for the first time paying no attention to the corn. And I just stood there, my bare feet caked in bloody hay, admiring the work my grandma had made. A scarecrow for, and from, Mason Bradley. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you like what you see, please feel free to shout something to the author behind curtain.


End file.
